


Good Old Fashioned Lover Boy

by acetheticallyy (patrickcorbins)



Category: The Pacific (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Ensemble Cast, Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M, Marriage Proposal, Missing Scene, New Year's Eve
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-01
Updated: 2019-01-01
Packaged: 2019-10-01 21:51:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,019
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17252027
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/patrickcorbins/pseuds/acetheticallyy
Summary: “You havin’ a heart attack on me, Eugene?” A watery laugh obscures some of the consonants. “That murmur finally get ya, or you gonna answer me here? Shakin’ in my boots, cher.”A catch in the throat that makes the words come out louder in some places, emphasis shifting from syllable to syllable. “You never wear shoes, you goddamn hillbilly.” A laugh. A yes. A ring. A thousand I love you’s. The promise of a thousand more.





	Good Old Fashioned Lover Boy

**Author's Note:**

> happy new year!! if I timed this right, it should hit at exactly 12am my time, or at least somewhere very near there. anyways this is my 2nd annual new year's fluff fic, where the word count matches the year. this year: the missing proposal scene from my fic "you'll never know how slow the moment's go till I'm near to you." you don't need to have read that fic to read this one, but I sure would appreciate it.
> 
> I edited this to hell and back to get to 2019 words, so I assume everything checks out, but if it doesn't then I'll fix it at some point. rated t for teen bc alcohol. title taken from the queen song! enjoy!
> 
> (of course, as ever, all of this is based entirely on the actors' portrayals in the hbo miniseries 'the pacific'! absolutely no offense is meant towards the real men whatsoever)

New Year's Eve twenty-seventeen. Three years since Merriell had finally gotten his shit together with Eugene; three years since he'd decided that one day, if he would have him, Merriell was going to marry Eugene. Tonight was the night.

Merriell had bought the ring an embarrassingly long time ago. So long ago he almost doesn't want to admit it, but if you needled him about it for long enough he'd relent and tell you that he saw it in a jewelry store at the mall about six months after they had starting dating and he's been holding onto it ever since.

Eugene had been with him when he had gotten it, too. They had been on a  _date_ , even. They were stopping for lunch before their movie started and Merriell had noted the ring in a shop display, sat down in the food court for about ten minutes, and pretended to need to use the bathroom so he could go buy it before he either forgot about it or lost the nerve. He made his purchase, slid it into a jacket pocket, and returned to finish lunch with Eugene, pretending that he wasn't starting to sweat. Eugene had either pretended to do the same, or he really didn't notice how close to jumping out of his own skin Merriell was. Either way, Merriell had gotten through the whole ordeal surprisingly easily.

And then the ring sat in the back of their closet for two and a half years, in an old shoebox that had become a near permanent fixture in the corner because they were the dress shoes that Merriell never wore and Eugene never had a reason to move it and because every time Merriell even _thought_ about proposing he felt his stomach fall into his ass and he tabled it for another day. Any time he thought the moment was right—which was often, and usually involved seeing Eugene in the kitchen with the sun streaming through the windows, lighting up his whole face—he convinced himself that another moment would be better, mostly so that he didn’t throw up the contents of his stomach when he asked.

Merriell had finally decided to propose this New Year's about a month or so ago, but to say that the knowledge stopped him from waking up with his heart pounding in his chest and his legs shaking underneath him as he lifted himself out of bed this morning would be a blatant lie. He very well might still throw up.

Proposing to his boyfriend right at the stroke of midnight with all his friends around is cheesy, he knows. But Merriell also knows that Eugene is a big cheeseball himself, and proposing to him exactly three years from the day, hour, minute, and second they first got together was likely to have his eyes running like a leaky faucet. It was perfect, and no it did  _not_ mean Merriell had gone soft, thank you very much Florence.

All he had to do now was get through the day without tipping off Eugene. This was probably going to be easier said than done, considering he had been so full of nerves and excitement that he ended up waking up at eight in the morning, giving him sixteen hours to fill. Still, he figures the hardest thing is going to be the  _waiting_. If Eugene doesn't figure him out, somehow, Merriell is likely to just give it up by one o'clock and propose to him early.

But even then, as much as he may want to give it all up and propose early, he knows it has to be perfect. Eugene is the kind of man you try for, even when it makes your good for nothing friends smirk and roll their eyes at you across the table whenever they catch you staring at him. And that alone is enough to stop him cold whenever he feels himself reaching for the inside pocket of his jacket too early.

By seven fifteen in the evening, the party is in full swing. Eugene, by the grace of God, hasn't noticed anything out of the ordinary yet. Perhaps it's the pressure of hosting that his him distracted, but it honestly is a miracle that nothing has clued him in yet, especially considering how often Burgie elbows Merriell in the side and smiles proudly at him like he's Merriell's goddamn father.

Even Andy and Eddie aren't being as suspicious as Burgie is, and Merriell would've pegged them as the ones he’d have to keep an eye on. As it is, though, Andy merely mouthed “good luck" at him from across the room earlier while Eddie tipped his head slightly to indicate his support. Beyond that, they hadn't done anything to imply that anything about tonight would be any different than usual.

Merriell takes a break from the crowded living room to go check on Eugene in the kitchen, coming up behind him and hooking his chin over his shoulder. "Take a break, cher," he says, "everyone's already too buzzed to give a shit about food other than cheese and popcorn at this point, anyway."

Eugene leans back into him and sighs lightly. It manages to be equal parts relaxed and exhausted, however Eugene makes that work. He always takes hosting way too seriously, even though their friends don't ever give a shit about anything more than making sure there's a half decent booze selection to choose from. Merriell figures it has something to do with all the extravagant holiday parties Eugene's family threw when he was a kid. The fact that the timer on the oven is currently counting down on a tray full of the Sledge family's famous sausage balls tells him he's probably not too far off.

"This is the last one, Mer," Eugene says. "Would've been done earlier, but I forgot to turn the oven on at first. I accidentally set the _time_ to 350 instead of the heat. I came in to check on them and realized the timer said 325 and the oven was still cold."

Merriell presses a kiss to the side of Eugene's neck, amused and exasperated. He gently nudges Eugene out of the way. "I think I can manage to take this out of the oven, Gene, go have fun."  Eugene tries to protest, but even he must realize how worn out he is at this point and he doesn't push it too hard before he relents and goes out to talk to the others. There's a drunken cheer when Eugene finally sits down and Merriell shakes his head while he opens the oven to check on the food. He wonders exactly how trashed they'll all manage to get by the time the clock strikes midnight.

The rest of the night moves pretty routinely. Merriell leaves the sausage balls on a platter on the already overflowing dining table, his heart hammers in his chest as he sits on the couch with Eugene leaning against him, and his friends sing offkey to every song that plays on the New Year's Eve special on TV. When Merriell switches the TV off to get them to stop, they just move on to singing Sweet Caroline at the top of their lungs. After the thirtieth "bum bum bum," he turns the television back on so they at least get some variety.

Before he knows it, the countdown is at thirty seconds. Premature fireworks crackle and whistle outside while champagne flutes inside are filled.

The countdown hits twenty. Merriell's palms are sweaty where they clutch the ring box in his pocket.

Ten. Everyone in the living room is doing a poor impression of a drumroll with their feet on the carpeted living room floor.

Five. Eugene turns his head to Merriell and gives him a sweet smile.

Four. Eugene hears someone call his name across the room and turns his head to answer. One of his hands still rests lightly on top of Merriell's knee.

Three. Merriell pulls the ring from his pocket.

Two. Everyone is on their feet, yelling. Merriell is on one knee, looking up at Eugene and waiting for him to turn around.

One. The ball drops on TV, the fireworks crescendo, and when Eugene turns around to wish Merriell a happy new year, he blinks in confusion before following everyone else's eyes to where Merriell is kneeling on the floor.

"Hey, Gene," he says. His breath catches in his throat and his eyes start to burn a little and, well, so much for the speech he had prepared, he thinks. He'll try, but he doubts he'll get it all out. It would take nothing less than divine intervention for him to choke out that many words right now, especially with Eugene standing above him with his hands over his mouth and tears in his eyes.

"So," Merriell starts. "I know proposing to you like this is kind of cheesy, and I know that's kind of out of character for me—" Florence tries and fails to conceal a snort when he says this, and he knows where she's going with it, but he continues on anyway "—but, well...it's been three years.  _Exactly_ three years, now. Happy anniversary, by the way. Anyway, um...it’s been a pretty good three years, I think. We got a house, a dog, a family that won’t leave us the hell alone any time we do _anything_.” Around them, his friends laugh. “And I am totally going to mess this up. Not the married thing, that’ll probably be okay, but the proposal thing, because… _God_ , because I had a whole sappy goddamn speech written down that I recited in the shower for like a month, and now look at me I can’t even—” his throat feels thick, and he stops to swallow. He’s not _crying_ , he hasn’t gone that soft, but he can feel _something_ sliding down his cheeks and when he licks his lips to get ready to speak again it tastes salty.

He clears his throat, tries again. “I have it written down somewhere, I’ll have to show it to you sometime. Anyway, it’s been three years and you don’t seem tired of me yet, so…marry me?” He can practically hear everyone holding their breath.

It’s quite a scene, really. Merriell resting on one knee, Eugene looking down with tears streaming down his face, their friends clutching at each other and bouncing up and down in silent, drunken anticipation. And through it all, firecrackers and bass-boosted music and loud cheers fill the neighborhood.

There’s a stretch of silence—if all the commotion outside can be considered silence—and it probably only lasts ten seconds, but it feels like ten lifetimes.

“You havin’ a heart attack on me, Eugene?” Merriell asks, laughing weakly to break the tension he can feel radiating from his friends. “That murmur finally get ya, or you gonna answer me here? Shakin’ in my boots, cher.”

Eugene finally removes his hands from his face to reveal a blinding grin. “You never wear shoes, you goddamn hillbilly.” It’s as good as an answer, and the cheering and jeering from their friends around them nearly drowns out the yes that comes next, but the yes is also all Merriell can seem to hear. He shoots up to his feet as soon as he hears it and places the ring gently on Eugene’s finger.

Congratulations join the fireworks and the cheering that already fills the air. Their friends are pressed in around them, ruffling hair and offering claps on the shoulder, but Merriell barely notices. All the drunken attention should be suffocating, but he feels weirdly light. Eugene is clung to him tighter than his jeans after Thanksgiving dinner and he’s clung to Eugene just as tight. His neck feels wet with tears and he’s pretty sure that at this point he has to admit that maybe he _is_ crying, just a little bit, and it all feels _right_.

He says, “I love you” what seems like a million times. He hears “I love you” what seems like a million more.

**Author's Note:**

> if y'all wanna know how to make sausage balls, here's my mom's recipe!
> 
> combine one pound of spicy sausage, two and a half cups of bisquick, and ten ounces of shredded sharp cheddar in a bowl. form the mixture into spheres and arrange them on a cookie sheet. bake at 350F for 30 minutes. take them out, let them cool, and enjoy.


End file.
